


my name on your lips

by unnecessary



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dancing, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, New Year's Eve, Pining, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 13:55:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5499590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unnecessary/pseuds/unnecessary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts when Matt and Marci have coffee. Then Foggy and Claire have coffee. Then Claire throws a Christmas party, and really, it isn't like Foggy means to keep almost confessing to Matt, but can anyone really blame him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	my name on your lips

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doctoralanabloom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctoralanabloom/gifts).



> Is there anything better than getting a prompt that boils down to “cute things and love confessions”? I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Fisk has been locked away for months and Marci is angling for partner at a shiny new firm when Foggy sees Matt walking down the opposite side of the street in a hurry. 

It’s Monday morning rush hour, and there are people pouring in and out of the coffee and bagel shops that line both sides of the street, so Foggy can’t be sure it’s even really him. When Foggy does a double take, the figure in a black suit has disappeared. Ignoring the people who brush past him impatiently, Foggy stands in the middle of the sidewalk, peering over the tops of the cars and taxis clogging the road and trying to get another glimpse. 

A dark head appears momentarily, moving quickly through the crowd. The man is wearing sunglasses, which is strange considering it’s an overcast day in November. 

“Matt,” Foggy says quietly. He thinks the man’s head jerks in his direction before he disappears around a corner. 

Foggy narrows his eyes at the place where the figure disappeared. When he called Matt half an hour earlier for his Monday morning wakeup call, he didn’t pick up. He had hoped that meant that Matt was already at the office, but it looks like he was wrong. 

Foggy starts back down the sidewalk at a sedate pace. There isn’t any point in going after Matt; whatever he’s up to, he clearly didn’t want to run into Foggy. He’s probably up on some rooftop by now. Maybe it’s something innocent, he thinks. Maybe Matt is going to surprise him with coffee. Maybe he’s even going to surprise him with bagels. 

And then Foggy sees Marci. 

There is a coincidence, and then there is seeing Marci sitting in the window of a mundane coffee shop in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen, where she would not put one pump-clad foot without a very good reason. Marci is texting aggressively on her phone, one leg crossed over the other, a large coffee resting on the table in front of her. Foggy is seized by the urge to knock on the glass just to have the upper hand for once, but instead he yanks open the door and steps inside. 

When she glances up from her phone, Marci does not look surprised. “Hello, Fogs. What a surprise.” 

Foggy sits down in the chair across from her. It’s still warm. “Why were you having coffee with Matt, Marci?” 

“On a Monday morning, no less.” She tucks her phone in her clutch. She picks up her coffee, eyeing Foggy over its top. “Don’t tell me you saw him in here. He left at least five minutes ago.” 

“I saw him alright,” Foggy says grimly. “And he definitely didn’t want me to see him. What were you talking about?” 

Marci takes a sip, then raises an eyebrow. “Did you want to order something?” 

Foggy matches her stare, then slowly stands, pushes in his chair, and walks over to the counter. 

By the time he returns with a scone and sixteen ounces of caffeine, Marci is back to frowning at her phone. “We were talking about you, of course,” she says without looking up. “We don’t have much else in common.” 

“Do I get to hear exactly what you were saying about me?” Foggy breaks his scone in half and takes a bite. 

“No.” Marci looks at him, her expression tired. “I really have no interest in the drama between you and Matt, Foggy Bear. If it makes you feel any better, we do sometimes find other things to talk about.”

Foggy stares at her. “Sometimes, as in, times that are not this time? How often do you get coffee with Matt?” 

She shrugs. “Whenever we feel like it.” Foggy is still trying to process the idea of Matt and Marci voluntarily being in the same room when she says, “You don’t need to look so concerned. I’m not going to tell him about your little crush.” 

Foggy’s full-body flinch makes the couple at the table next to theirs glance at them. “Keep your voice down!” Foggy hisses. 

“Why?” Marci asks, but she lowers her voice anyway. Her eyebrows raise. “It’s not like he’s still here.” 

He can’t exactly tell her that it is more than possible that Matt can hear every word they’re saying whether he’s there or not. “You never know with Matt,” he says darkly into his coffee, and takes a large gulp. 

“You and I should start having coffee dates again,” she says while Foggy attempts not to choke on his mouthful of burning coffee. “You just have to promise to keep the talk about lover boy to a minimum.” 

“Why?” Foggy says hoarsely once he has finished coughing. “If you two talk about me all the time, why can’t I talk about Matt?” 

Marci arches one eyebrow. “Because I don’t care about Matt.” 

“Fine,” Foggy says, suddenly angry. He can’t talk to Karen about Matt because she cares too much, and he can’t talk to Marci about Matt because she doesn’t care enough. He stands up and shoves his scone back in its sleeve. “You two enjoy gossiping. I’m going to go to work.” 

. . .

When Foggy gets to the office, Karen and Matt are already there. Karen gives him a look when he walks in the door, and he obediently walks over to her desk. 

“Marci called,” Karen whispers, a smile spreading across her face, “asking for Matt!” 

Foggy spins around. “Matthew Murdock,” he bellows, and Matt looks up from his laptop. “Did you take a call from Marci?” 

Matt adjusts his glasses with one finger. “Marci Stahl, one of the prosecutors on the Wilson case? Yes, I did.” 

Foggy narrows his eyes. Matt looks back innocently. “I have my eye on you, Murdock.” 

Karen stifles a giggle with her hand. “What was that about?” 

“Matt is consorting with the enemy,” Foggy informs her. He sweeps into his office and deposits his messenger bag beside his desk. 

“Aren’t you the one who spent the night at her place?” Karen calls after him. 

“I was young and foolish.” 

“Really?” Matt calls from his office. “How many months ago was that, again?” 

“Shut up,” Foggy retorts, and Matt and Karen dissolve into giggles. Softly enough that only Matt can hear, he adds, “You had better not have been selling her state secrets, Murdock.” 

Through the windows to their offices, he sees Matt smile softly. Foggy swallows and looks back at his desk. It really doesn’t matter what Marci tells him, Foggy thinks moodily. If Matt doesn’t already know how Foggy feels, it’s a miracle—and Matt, of course, is too much of a gentleman to say anything about it. 

. . .

That night, Foggy calls Claire. 

“I want to talk to you about Matt,” he says without preamble. 

Claire’s eye-roll is clear, even over the phone. “What has he done now?” 

“Nothing. Well, probably something. I just—” Foggy runs his hand through his hair. “Do you want to get coffee sometime? I mean, I’m sure you’re busy. If you are, it’s really—” 

“How about tomorrow?” she interrupts. “I hope later is okay with you. I usually don’t drink caffeine until just before I start my shift.”

“Sure,” Foggy says, surprised. And then: “Thanks.” 

“Of course,” she says. “Are you free when you get off work?”

Claire is already seated with a cup of coffee and a sandwich when he arrives. “I decided I might as well get dinner,” she says apologetically. 

Foggy blinks. “You should have said something. We could have met somewhere with more food.” 

“Maybe next time.” She smiles tiredly at him. “So what’s up with Matt?” 

Foggy watches her take a bite of her sandwich. “You know what? I don’t want to talk about Matt. I’m tired of talking about Matt. Let’s talk about anything other than Matt. How’s work?” 

Claire looks surprised, and then she smiles. “We can do that.” 

Foggy, it turns out, has a lot in common with Claire. She gets client confidentiality, and she firmly believes that the bystander effect is one of the greatest threats to human life. She, like Foggy, feels that everyone fundamentally deserves to be saved. She just also thinks that some people deserve to suffer first. 

“Which is why you’re okay with what Matt does,” Foggy says. He knows that Claire must have to leave for her shift soon, but she isn’t rushing him. 

“I don’t like it, but I think it’s necessary.” Foggy must look like he doesn’t quite buy it, because she adds, “Necessary to make the world a better place, and necessary for Matt.” 

Foggy swallows and looks at his hands. “I just wish he didn’t feel like he has to sacrifice himself in the process.” 

“Yeah,” Claire sighs, “me too.” 

. . .

The thing is, now that he and Matt have decided to move forward, Foggy barely sees Matt anymore. 

It doesn’t seem to be a conscious decision on Matt’s part, and it definitely isn’t on Foggy’s. They see each other every day at work, of course, but the rest of the time, Matt seems to always be gently putting distance between them. Instead of joining Foggy and Karen for a few drinks, Matt will look at the ground and say, “I think I’ll turn in early tonight,” and that will be it. Before, Foggy might have forced Matt to come up with an excuse, but now he just says, “Okay, Matt,” pats him on the shoulder, and walks to Josie’s with Karen. 

It might also have something to do with the fact that now that they have real clients who pay them real money, Foggy has an apartment again. Instead of cycling through his parents’ place, Karen’s place, and the floor of his office, he comes home every night to the same two-room apartment and sleeps in the same bed. Foggy no longer has an excuse to invite himself over to Matt’s for Thai takeout and a beer, and for whatever reason, he can’t seem to give Matt an excuse good enough to convince him to spend the evening at Foggy’s. 

He isn’t sure when they started needing an excuse at all. 

Foggy doesn’t realize exactly how far apart they’ve grown, and how long it has been since Matt has even mentioned what he does after dark, until one night early in December when Matt shoves open Foggy’s kitchen window, whispers, “Foggy, Foggy,” and stumbles inside.

Foggy, who was puttering around in the kitchen trying to decide on a midnight snack, nearly has a heart attack. Matt is wearing the Daredevil suit. There’s no blood on the bright red fabric that Foggy can see, but his hand is pressed to his right side and he moves oddly as he braces himself against the windowpane with his left shoulder. Beneath the cowl, his lips are parted as he pants harshly. 

“Matt?” Foggy gasps. 

“Foggy,” Matt whispers again, like he doesn’t know if Foggy is there or not. Foggy steps close to him and swallows. 

“I’m here, Matt. What happened?” 

Matt’s head tilts toward the sound of Foggy’s voice. He lifts his hand from the wall and reaches for Foggy, who quickly steps into range. Matt’s hand rests heavily on his shoulder. 

“Foggy,” Matt breathes, and suddenly Matt’s nose is pressed into Foggy’s hair and Matt is breathing wetly on Foggy’s neck. 

“How badly are you hurt?” Foggy whispers back. His hands come up automatically to Matt’s shoulders, then his back, and he finds himself feeling for breaks in the material of Matt’s suit. His heart is thundering in his ears, but he strains to listen past it for any sign of how much pain Matt is in. His fingers itch as he realizes that his phone is all the way in the bedroom. “I’ll call Claire.” 

“No,” Matt huffs into his skin. “Just—just broken bones. Foggy.” 

“That doesn’t make me feel a whole lot better,” Foggy tells him, but he grips Matt tighter and doesn’t let go. 

Matt is starting to sag against him, and Foggy doesn’t know how much longer he can take Matt’s weight. “Let’s get to the couch,” he says. He isn’t sure if Matt hears him, but when Foggy moves toward the divide between linoleum and carpet that marks the beginning of his living room, Matt comes with him. They sink onto the couch together, Matt still breathing on his skin. Foggy swallows. He needs to see Matt’s face. 

“Matt,” he says into Matt’s ear, “I’m going to touch your face now. Okay, buddy?” 

Matt is silent. Foggy pulls back. Matt lets him, even though his fingers dig into Foggy’s shoulder and pinch his skin. Foggy reaches up with trembling fingers and pulls off Matt’s cowl. The fabric is hot and damp under his fingers, and the skin underneath is slick with sweat. Foggy lets the cowl pool around Matt’s neck. With the hand that isn’t gripping Matt’s shoulder, he smooths back Matt’s hair and looks into distant, dark eyes. 

“What bones did you break, Matt?” 

Matt huffs out a breath, then another. “Ribs,” he says finally. “Hard to breathe. Just—just hurts,” he adds when Foggy’s heart clenches. “Two cracked, one hairline fracture.” He takes in a careful, shallow breath. “Not a big deal.” 

Foggy fights down panic at this news. “Okay. Would it help to get you out of the suit?” 

“Yes. I just need to.” Matt presses a hand back to his side with a wince. “Need to rest.” 

“There’s no chance one of those is going to puncture a lung or anything?” 

Matt pulls back his lips from his teeth in what might be a smile. “If you want to wake up Claire. Be my guest.” 

That, Foggy thinks, sounds like a very good idea. Before he can do much more than complete the thought, Matt’s hand shoots out and presses on Foggy’s shoulder. 

“Don’t,” he whispers. “Please. I’ll leave if you need me to, but. Can I stay?” Foggy is certain that his heart breaks just a little bit at the note of desperation in Matt’s voice. “Foggy?” 

“You don’t need to ask,” Foggy says, his voice rough. “Let’s get you to bed.” 

Foggy arranges them so that Matt’s arm is draped over his shoulders before they begin their slow journey to Foggy’s bedroom. Matt stumbles more than once on their way to the bed, letting out a huff of irritation each time. Foggy can’t decide if it’s reassuring that Matt’s grip on Foggy is hard enough to leave bruises. It’s a reminder of how strong Matt really is, but he would never hold onto Foggy so tightly if something weren’t very wrong. 

It takes the two of them to get Matt out of the suit. It reminds Foggy keenly of helping Claire get Matt out of his vigilante costume. When Foggy bumps Matt’s ribs and Matt curls in on himself in silent pain, he wishes for the first time that the suit weren’t knife- and scissor-proof. Having a good idea of how Matt will react if he suggests cutting him out of his body armor, Foggy bites his tongue and eases Matt’s arms out of the suit in silence. 

The undershirt and briefs that Matt wears under the suit are soaked with sweat. Foggy makes Matt pull off the shirt so he can help him into an old sweatshirt, but when Foggy sets a pair of folded sweatpants in Matt’s hands, Matt’s tongue flicks over his lips. 

Foggy grabs his phone from his bedside table. “I’ll be right back,” he says in the silence. He closes the door behind him. 

Claire’s phone rings and goes to voicemail, and Foggy has to call a second time before she picks up. She takes his explanation in silence. “I’m just worried it’s worse than . . . it sounds,” he whispers when he’s done, even though he knows that trying to keep his voice down is a pointless exercise with Matt only a few yards away. 

Claire is silent for a beat, and then she lets out a huff of laughter. “He’s right there, isn’t he?” 

Foggy scrubs his face with his hand. “He’s in the bedroom.” 

“Gottchya. Well, tell him that I said he should stop trying to downplay his symptoms around you,” she says wryly. Judging from the eerie silence from the bedroom, Foggy won't need to tell Matt anything. “You may be able to cut through his bullshit, but you don’t have medical training. He needs to be honest with you about how much help he needs, especially if I have to try to treat him through the phone.” Foggy smiles weakly; he knew he liked her for a reason. “What specifically is worse than he wants you to think?” 

“I don’t think he knew it was me when he first got here.” 

Claire sighs, filling his ear with static. “That happens sometimes. I think the pain messes with his . . . world on fire.” 

“The pain, or the fact that he can hear his own bones breaking?” Foggy hisses into the phone. “What the hell does a hairline fracture sound like?” 

“A creaking ship, apparently,” Claire says, amused. “When he gives you a sensical answer for what bruising sounds like, let me know. Are there any signs of a head injury?” Foggy hesitates. He didn’t think to check. “Foggy? Do you want me to come over?” 

There is a thump from the bedroom that sounds like Matt trying to stand up. “No. I’ll call you if anything changes.” 

“Call me if anything—Yeah.” Claire sighs again. “And text me in the morning with an update, yeah? I do worry about him.” 

“Sure,” Foggy agrees, feeling strangely touched that she trusts him that much. “Will do.” 

By the time Foggy returns to the bedroom, Matt is lying on his back under the covers, looking as if nothing happened. “You okay in there, buddy?” he asks quietly. 

Matt turns his head towards him. “Are you coming to bed?” 

“Yeah.” Foggy drops his phone on the bedside table and switches off the light. Matt has taken the side closest to the center of the room, which is usually where Foggy sleeps. Foggy awkwardly crawls over him so that he doesn’t have to move, and then slips under the covers. 

Foggy holds his breath for a moment as he looks at the place where Matt’s face must be. Matt is a warm, heavy shape beside him in the darkness, the mattress dipping slightly beneath his weight. Without really meaning to, Foggy inches closer until his chin bumps into Matt’s shoulder. Matt shifts beside him, then slips his arm under Foggy’s shoulders without a word. 

Foggy moves closer to Matt until his cheek is resting on Matt’s shoulder, his arms trapped between them. Matt seems to be breathing evenly, so after a moment’s hesitation, Foggy frees one arm and reaches across Matt’s chest. He skims his fingers along Matt’s far shoulder, then up his neck. He moves his hand into Matt’s hair at the back of his head, searching for bumps or scrapes. 

Signs of a head injury, Claire had said, but what the hell do you use to detect a concussion when their pupils don’t respond to light? 

Matt sighs and leans into the touch. Foggy’s fingers still. “Matt? What’s your name?” 

“I didn’t hit my head, Foggy,” Matt says in the darkness. His huff of laughter is a puff of warmth on Foggy’s cheek. 

Foggy withdraws his arm and tucks it firmly between them. Matt tilts his head, and suddenly his head is resting on Foggy’s, and Foggy is resting his head on Matt’s shoulder, and nothing has ever felt more right. 

As Matt relaxes against him, Foggy thinks about how disoriented Matt had been at first. What did Matt do before he had Claire and Foggy? What happens on the nights when he isn’t disoriented enough to seek out Foggy’s help? His heart wrenches at the thought, because he has seen what happens when Matt stumbles home, injured and bleeding, without anyone to turn to. Matt without Claire and Foggy and Karen is just Matt, who comes home to a cold and empty apartment with broken bones and bruises. 

“Matt,” Foggy says in the darkness. Sometimes, like now, he wishes that the strength of his love was enough to ease Matt’s suffering. Matt turns his head slightly towards him, an almost imperceptible movement that makes his stubble whisper against Foggy’s hair. “What do bruises sound like?” 

Matt hums, a sound deep in his chest that Foggy feels travel down his spine. His voice heavy with near sleep, he mumbles what sounds like, “Hot fuzzy sloshing. Foggy.” 

“I’m here, Matt.” 

“Mm. Good. Foggy.” 

Foggy smiles into the darkness and listens to Matt fall asleep. 

. . .

Matt is still dead to the world when Foggy wakes up the next morning, so he moves Matt’s arm off his chest (“Jesus _Christ,_ Matt, what do you use as weights? Tree trunks?”) and pads his way to the bathroom. When he emerges, Matt has turned his head into Foggy’s pillow and his brow is furrowed in sleep. His chest warm, Foggy moves into the kitchen to find something quiet to eat. 

Foggy wakes Matt up by dropping his spoon on the way to the sink. He is grateful his kitchen floor isn’t tile, but the sound still echoes like a gunshot in the silent apartment. Foggy winces. 

There is a sudden flurry of rustling sheets from the bedroom. It stops, and there is silence for a moment before Matt calls, “Foggy?” 

“Good morning,” Foggy calls back, and he dumps his dishes in the kitchen sink with a clatter. “Sleep well?” 

There is a soft thump from the bedroom, and then what might be a grunt of pain. Foggy frowns at his dishes and turns on the sink. Matt can do a better job of figuring out exactly how he injured himself last night than Foggy can. 

Man appears in the bedroom doorway when Foggy is halfway through soaping up his dishes. “Got any coffee?” he rasps. 

Foggy gives him a look. Matt, who knows Foggy well enough to know what that silence means, smiles hopefully. “Yes, I have coffee,” Foggy says loftily, returning to his dishes. “Are you going to tell me what happened last night?” 

“Mm.” Matt smiles crookedly as he runs a hand through his hair. “About that.” 

Foggy sighs heavily as he slots a clean plate into the dish drainer. “Spill it, Matt, or I’m calling Claire.” 

“You did call Claire.” Matt leans against the doorjamb and shoves his hands in the pockets of Foggy’s sweats. “I heard you.” 

“And I can call her again.” Foggy turns to face Matt as he dries his hands on a dishtowel. “Did you hear the part where she was worried about you?” 

“I heard the part where you were worried about me,” he says gently. 

Matt isn't wearing his glasses—of course he isn't, because they're back in his own apartment. His eyes are soft in the early morning light filtering through the closed blinds. _Duh, I’m worried about you,_ Foggy wants to say, but he can’t seem to do anything except look at Matt. Matt pushes himself off the doorjamb with his shoulder and steps towards Foggy. 

“I break bones all the time,” Matt continues, his voice still gentle like he thinks this is something that Foggy doesn’t want to hear. He walks across the living room and comes to a stop where the carpet meets linoleum. “I know how that sounds, but it means that I know they’ll heal. The pain is just temporary.” 

Matt’s right; it does hurt to hear that. “Why come here? Why didn’t you go to Claire?” 

“It was closer. There wasn’t much she could have done. I didn’t want to wake her. I didn’t want to bother her.” His tongue slips over his lips. “I knew you were awake.” 

“Did you, though?” Foggy is still holding onto the towel, and his hands clench around the damp fabric. “You seemed pretty out of it. Stabbed-in-the-chest-and-collapsing-on-the-floor out of it.” 

For the first time, Matt looks unsettled. “I’m sure it seemed worse than it was.” 

Foggy stares at him. “Do you remember exactly what happened last night?” 

Matt takes a breath. His shoulders are tense. “My senses go a little . . . hazy sometimes. When I get overwhelmed. When there’s too much adrenaline, and too much sensory input.” _Like pain,_ Foggy’s brain helpfully supplies. “I remember finishing the fight. I remember knowing I needed to go somewhere safe. Do I remember how I got to your place?” Matt lifts his shoulder in an understated shrug. 

Foggy lets out a long breath. “For what it’s worth, you can crash here any time, senses on the fritz or not. I miss my roommate, sometimes.” 

Matt’s smile is small, but it reaches his eyes. “Sure, Foggy.” He turns away, and Foggy knows without either of them having to say a thing that Matt is on his way to the shower, where he will steal Foggy’s hair products just like he did whenever he ran out of something in college. 

Foggy sets aside the dish towel. “Matt.” Matt pauses and turns back to Foggy. “You said my name a lot last night. Like, a _lot_ a lot. What was up with that?” 

Matt tilts his head like he’s listening to something. Foggy breathes evenly, and he doesn’t think his heart is doing anything unusual, but Matt smiles like he heard whatever he was listening for. “It’s a good name. Foggy.” 

Foggy watches his retreating back, stunned. His heart is pounding in his chest, an automatic reaction to something that he tries to convince himself he imagined. There was an extra layer of meaning to Matt’s words, heat that didn’t belong there. Even though he and Matt say more flirtatious things to each other all the time, it is the first time Foggy can remember hearing Matt sound like he just flirted with Foggy and meant it. 

“Better than Matt, anyway,” he mutters, his pulse fluttering in his throat, and starts up the coffee maker. 

. . .

Over the next week, Foggy keeps a close eye on Matt in and out of the office. He doesn’t actually say anything about how he certainly hopes that there isn’t any vigilante-ing going on with two and a half broken ribs, but he makes a habit of walking Matt home, or having Matt walk him home, or having the two of them walk Karen home together, just so that Matt has one less excuse to dash off into the night after he leaves the office. Karen gives Matt a hard look the first time she notices him wincing after standing up suddenly, and between the two of them, they manage to keep Matt from doing any of the heavy lifting he should have been avoiding in the first place. 

On Saturday evening, Foggy finds out that Claire is throwing a Christmas party. 

“I’m inviting you and Matt,” Claire tells him over the phone. 

“Me and Matt?” Foggy says. He’s sitting on his couch, trying to decide exactly which TV show he’s going to watch on his laptop tonight. “Do you want me to relay this message to Matthew?” 

“I already talked to him,” Claire says, sounding amused. “Things are still a little awkward between us, sometimes, but it’s not that bad.” 

“Awkward?” Foggy repeats. 

Claire tells him about the awkward in short, brisk sentences. “Oh,” Foggy says when she’s done. He supposes it’s strange that he and Claire have never talked about this before, but they really don’t spend very many of their weekly dinners talking about Matt anymore. “Sure, I can come. I mean, I’d love to anyway, but you made the right choice inviting me. I’m very good at providing a buffer between Matt and awkward.” 

Foggy can hear the smile in her voice when she asks, “You do this often?” 

“Often enough. Matt and awkward are very good friends.” 

This time, Claire laughs. Foggy really likes her, he realizes. “Thanks,” she says warmly. “And don’t bother to bring anything other than food. It’s a potluck, and believe me, I’ve got drinks covered.” 

“A potluck party. I like your style.” 

“While I have you on the phone . . .” 

“No nighttime activities that I’m aware of,” Foggy provides promptly. “Karen and I have him pretty well trained to leave all the lifting of file boxes to us. He even laughed the other day without it looking like it hurt.” 

“Good. And how’s the bruising?” 

Foggy blinks. “Um. I haven’t been checking?” There is a long pause. “Do you want me to ask him?” 

“I can text him.” 

“Okay,” Foggy says slowly, trying very hard not to imagine exactly why Claire thinks Foggy would be seeing Matt shirtless on a regular basis. “So. I’ll see you next Saturday.” 

“At eight,” she agrees. “There’s going to be about twenty people, so I’m recommending finger food rather than sit-down dishes.” 

“Sounds good,” Foggy says. After they hang up, he stares at his phone for a little too long. It’s not the first time he’s been Matt’s plus one to a party, and it’s not the first time he’s been mistaken as Matt’s something-more-than-friend, but it’s the first time it’s been done by someone who knows Matt really, really well. 

“Weird,” Foggy declares to his empty living room, and returns his attention to his laptop. 

. . .

“Ah,” Claire says the moment she opens the door. “Matt and his date are here.” 

“How come I’m always the plus one?” Foggy demands. “Why is it never ‘Foggy Nelson and his date have arrived,’ huh?” 

“It doesn't have quite the same ring to it,” Matt says, shifting his weight from side to side in an attempt to keep warm. He’s smirking. Of course he is. 

“We brought shrimp dip,” Foggy declares, presenting the plate to Claire. He doesn’t mention that it is apparently the best shrimp dip in all of New York City; it had taken him and Matt half an hour of taste-testing to find one that was Murdock-approved. 

“Great,” Claire says, stepping aside and letting them in. “Any flat surface is fine, but there should still be some space in the kitchen. Matt. You look better than the last time I saw you.” 

Matt shoots a pleading look in Foggy’s direction, but Foggy grins, sheds his coat, and leaves Matt to Claire’s interrogation. As he threads his way through Claire’s apartment, he thinks it’s probably a good thing that she invited him. The space is small and crowded, two of Matt’s least favorite things, and Foggy has run interference for Matt at enough parties in college and mixers during their time at Landman and Zack to know what he’s doing. 

By the time he finds a space for the shrimp dip platter, snags two glasses of red for him and Matt, and makes his way back to the front door, Claire and Matt are making small talk about the state of the medical system in Hell’s Kitchen. Foggy positions himself at Matt’s left elbow and hands him a glass of wine. He scans the room for anyone they know and doesn’t see any familiar faces. He and Matt are probably a little overdressed, but Foggy prefers to err on the side of one suit jacket too many rather than one too few. 

When the arrival of another guest interrupts Claire’s analysis of the effects of the drug trade on the abuse of narcotics by medical practitioners, Foggy leans into Matt and murmurs, “Are you sure the shrimp dip was the right choice? What if someone’s allergic to shellfish?” 

Matt snorts softly. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Claire’s a nurse and I can tell if anyone’s having an anaphylactic reaction before they do, so between the two of us, we should be able to handle it.” He swirls the wine in his glass. “Besides, weren’t you the one who suggested the shrimp dip in the first place? I wanted to bring humus.” 

Foggy blinks. “We really are an old married couple, aren’t we? No wonder Claire thought I should be able to give her updates on your bruising.” 

Matt inhales his wine and spends the next twenty seconds coughing into his sleeve. “She told me the same thing,” he says in a strained voice when he’s done. 

Before Foggy can ask how serious things were between him and Claire, really, there is the sound of a knife being banged against the side of a wine glass. Matt winces, and Foggy puts a hand on his arm sympathetically. 

“This isn’t news to anyone who has attended my parties before,” Claire calls, and Foggy can just see her standing in the center of the living room, “but I have a holiday tradition.” There is scattered cheering and clapping, and Foggy looks around curiously. “On the first song, everyone who knows the dance has to find a partner who doesn’t. On the second song, it’s a free-for-all. We’ll start with the waltz.” 

“I know how to waltz!” Foggy says excitedly as the rest of the guests try to find places to put down their drinks. He took ballroom dance class twice in college, both times because of the extremely attractive man who taught the class. He always told Matt it was because of a “pretty girl”—another lie sacrificed on the altar of his undying crush for Matthew Murdock. 

Matt, who still has _broken ribs_.

“But I think I’ll just watch,” he says firmly, and he takes a swig of wine to prove it. _You’re never going to get over him if you keep this up, Nelson,_ a small part of his brain says, but Foggy gave up on trying to get over Matt somewhere around their second year of law school. 

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Matt murmurs in Foggy’s ear. “In Claire’s medical opinion, I am free to waltz. Only the tango is out.” 

Before Foggy can comment on the indignity of finding out about this dancing tradition after Matt did, or think too hard about the idea of Matt doing the _tango,_ the crowd around them thickens. Claire’s chairs and coffee table have already been pushed against the walls, leaving a surprisingly large space for the dancers. 

“Go on,” Matt says, and, using a level of spatial awareness that he probably shouldn’t be showing off in a room full of strangers, he takes Foggy’s glass out of his hand and pushes him forward in one smooth motion. 

In the split second that Foggy has to think about it, he is disappointed that Matt didn’t give him the chance to ask him to be his dance partner. He almost turns around and fights his way back through the crowd, but Claire has already spotted him and is grinning at him, so Foggy reluctantly steps into the center of the room. 

It takes only a few minutes to pair up everyone who has come forward with someone who doesn’t know how to waltz. Foggy ends up with a very pretty woman with curly blond hair and freckles who reminds him a little bit of his cousin Mary. She claims she doesn’t know any dance of any kind, and two minutes into the song, Foggy believes her wholeheartedly. Foggy loves teaching, though, and she is a good listener. By the time the song ends, they are both laughing, and Foggy is almost disappointed to have to choose a different partner. 

Almost, until he turns around and finds Matt standing in front of him. 

“May I have this dance?” Matt asks, his mouth twitching up in one corner. His cane is missing, probably propped up against whichever table is currently supporting their drinks, as is his suit jacket. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. He is wearing one of Foggy’s ugly Christmas ties, one covered with tiny, embroidered Christmas trees and real minuscule baubles. His cheeks are slightly flushed from the wine and the warmth caused by many people in a small space. At that moment, he is easily the most attractive person in the entire state of New York. 

“Yeah,” Foggy says belatedly. “Sure. Let’s do this dance thing.” 

“You should probably lead,” Matt prompts when Foggy doesn’t immediately step forward. 

“Right,” Foggy says. He sets a hand on Matt’s waist, and Matt obediently settles one hand on Foggy’s upper arm. Matt holds out his other hand, eyebrows raised. Foggy takes it. Matt’s skin is warm against his own, and he can feel Matt’s body heat burning through the fabric of his shirt. They stand there like that, Foggy feeling warmer and warmer, while they wait for the music to start. “That is a really ugly tie,” Foggy blurts out. 

Matt laughs. “I’ve been complimented on it twice already.” 

Then the music starts, and they’re dancing. 

“Why did I have no idea you could dance?” Foggy asks as they complete their first turn. Matt is sure-footed, which Foggy supposes comes from being a vigilante by night, and he follows Foggy’s lead easily. What surprises Foggy is the grace with which he moves. He clearly hasn’t danced in a while, but it is also clear that he could quickly become a very good dancer. 

“I learned how to waltz when I was a kid.” They make another turn, Foggy’s eyes trained on Matt’s face the whole way. “It was part of learning how to navigate the world again, make us more confident. Any good dancer should be able to waltz with their eyes closed.” 

“Oh,” Foggy says. And, because he can’t just enjoy the moment, and because he doesn’t know how keep his foot out of his mouth, he says, “Claire told me what happened.” 

Matt tenses. Foggy has to do some maneuvering to keep them from bumping into a couple wearing matching ugly Christmas sweaters. Matt is still moving through the steps, but it feels like Foggy is having to drag him along. “What did she say?” 

Foggy shrugs, and he knows that Matt can feel the movement. “Not a lot. I was sort of wondering what she said to you.” 

Matt is silent as they waltz past the coffee table. “She said she couldn’t let herself fall in love with someone who was so close to becoming what he hates.” 

“Did she mean Fisk?” 

“I think she meant the part where I wanted to kill him.” 

No one is listening to them, but it still makes Foggy’s breath catch to hear Matt say it so bluntly. “But you didn’t,” he points out, knowing that they’ve been through this before. 

“I don’t think you realize how close I am to enjoying it, sometimes.” Matt’s voice drops to a whisper. “I could have, Foggy.” 

Foggy mulls this over as they complete another turn. Matt’s grip on Foggy’s arm is almost painful, and the knuckles of the hand holding Foggy’s are white. “I’m not going to leave you, Matt,” Foggy says finally. “I’ve already made my decision. I might not like it, and I might not completely understand it, but I’m not going anywhere.” He lets out a light breath, knowing that Matt can hear how fast his heart is beating underneath his calm words. “For better or for worse.” 

Matt’s hold on Foggy’s hand loosens, but his grip on Foggy’s arm remains tight, as if he is afraid to let go. 

When the song ends, they move to the kitchen, and soon they each have a plate piled with food. Matt holds his plate in one hand and rests the other on Foggy’s elbow. He tenses and his smile tightens as soon as they return to the living room, but Foggy doesn’t think it’s because of their conversation. When they make it back to their drinks, Matt lets out a slow breath. 

They lean against the wall and watch Claire’s other guests attempt the tango. Foggy keeps up a running commentary of the worst disasters, and he is able to make Matt chuckle a few times. By the time the second song finishes, Matt has unrolled his sleeves and buttoned the cuffs despite still being flushed and obviously too warm. 

“Want to get out of here?” Foggy murmurs to him. He leans into Matt a little, and Matt immediately leans back. 

“Just for a minute. I’m not ready to leave quite yet.” 

Foggy nods. He offers his elbow. “Shall we?” 

Matt grins briefly. They make their way across the room to the kitchen again, and Foggy digs a pair of beers out of an ice cooler. Claire wasn’t kidding; it looks like she has every type of drink under the sun. 

The air is cold and bracing on the roof. Foggy shivers a little and wonders if he should offer to go back for Matt’s jacket, but one look at Matt is all he needs to decide that there isn’t any need. Matt looks at peace in a way that Foggy hasn’t seen in a long time—months, maybe. Matt goes to the edge of the roof and rests his elbows on the ledge, his beer dangling from one hand. 

Foggy follows him more slowly, wary of the steep drop only a few feet away. He isn’t a fan of heights, but he has hung out with Matt on the roof of his own building enough times to not mind it too much. 

“I like being up high,” Matt confesses, as though he knows what Foggy is thinking. “It’s quiet.” 

Foggy mirrors Matt’s position, resting his elbows on the cold cement. Matt has his face turned up to the sky, and he is almost smiling. Foggy looks out at the city. With the cold bringing tears to his eyes, the streets in front of them are a blur of light and dark. The roar of traffic is muted below them. A car horn honks somewhere far away, and an angry voice drifts to them on the wind. “I can see that.” 

A siren wails, rising and then fading away. Foggy looks at Matt. He’s looking out at the city, now, but his expression hasn’t changed. 

“How do you block it out? When you’re not working, how do you block out the sirens?” 

“Meditation, sometimes.” Matt adjusts his grip on his beer bottle, rotating it slowly in his hand. “When I can’t do that, I try to focus only on what’s immediately around me. When the sirens are too loud for me to even do that . . .” Matt shrugs. “Repetitive sounds. It can be anything—a refrigerator humming. Music playing somewhere.” 

“What if you can’t find something to listen to?” 

Matt smiles and turns his head towards Foggy. “There is always something to listen to in our world, Foggy. Even the way we breathe has a pattern.” He looks back at the city. “But it’s true. Sometimes I have to make sounds.” He taps his free hand on the ledge demonstratively. 

“Or you can just listen to yourself talk.” 

Matt laughs, the sound high and bright in the cool night air. “True. Sometimes I do.” Foggy thinks he’s joking, but then he says, “Some words work better than others.” 

“What, like—” Foggy is struck by the memory of the other night, Matt falling into Foggy’s apartment. “Like ‘Foggy’?” 

Matt grins. “Yes, like ‘Foggy.’” 

“Why not . . . ‘cactus’?” 

Matt laughs again, delighted. “‘Cactus’ is . . .” He shivers. “Not a nice word to say more than once. ‘Foggy’ is soft sounds, rounded vowels. It reminds me of good things.” 

Foggy stares at Matt—Matt, who is smiling and who looks so sincere. Foggy’s heart aches. “The best thing that ever happened to you,” he manages. 

Matt’s smile becomes quieter, almost sad. “Yes.” 

Foggy’s heart does a summersault in his chest. He knows Matt can hear it, but he can’t help it. He thinks about the way Matt had reached for him before he had even known for sure that it was Foggy standing in his own kitchen, the way he had said Foggy’s name like it was the most important word in the dictionary. _You could kiss him,_ an unhelpful part of Foggy’s brain supplies. _You could kiss him right here, right now._

“Matt, I—” 

“Let’s go inside,” Matt says gently. He takes a last sip from his beer, then turns and starts back. His heart pounding in his chest, Foggy follows him. 

. . .

By the time they return to the party, the third dance, whatever it was, is over, and nearly everyone seems to have a drink of some kind. Foggy and Matt slip into the crowd, mixing easily now that everyone is relaxed from good food, drink, and company. The rest of the party is a haze of conversations Foggy doesn’t remember, but he remembers Matt’s smile lighting up the room. 

They aren’t the last ones to leave by any means, but the crowd is thinning by the time they gather their coats and say goodbye. Claire offers to call them a cab, giving Matt a pointed look, but Foggy waves her off and they set out into the night. 

“Let me walk you home,” Foggy says. He’s not sure where the words come from; he’s pleasantly buzzed, but not drunk. “I mean, we’re going in that direction anyway.” He runs his tongue along the inside of his teeth, and then declares, “You could spend the night at my place.” 

Foggy’s new apartment is about two blocks away from Matt’s. There is no practical reason for Foggy to walk Matt home, or for Matt to stay at Foggy’s place. 

Matt stops walking. Foggy stops, too, and looks at him. Matt’s face is blank and unreadable behind his dark glasses. 

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.” 

“I don’t mean—I’m not _suggesting_ anything,” Foggy says, and it’s not a lie. “I don’t mind sleeping on the couch. I just meant what I said, before, about missing my roomie.” He squares his shoulders. “You don’t need to only come by my place when there’s no other option.” 

He feels like he’s choking on the words once they’re out, but there it is. Matt never comes to his apartment when he can help it. Before two weeks ago, the last time he was there for longer than five minutes was when he and Karen threw Foggy a housewarming party and the three of them ate pizza on the floor of Foggy’s living room, surrounded by boxes. 

“You can’t tell me you’re going out tonight,” Foggy adds when Matt doesn’t say anything. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you never drink more than a beer on nights when you have plans.” 

Matt starts walking again. “Let’s go home, Foggy.” 

It could be an acceptance of Foggy’s offer, but it’s not. Foggy knows it’s not, even when they reach where they usually part ways and Matt turns left instead of right. Matt follows Foggy all the way to his front door, and he waits while Foggy unlocks the door and steps inside. 

“I’ll see you on Monday,” Matt says. Foggy’s heart drops; it’s not like he and Matt see each other every day, but it’s rare for Matt to so completely shut down any possibility of making plans for the rest of the weekend. Matt probably hears it happen, because he pauses. “If you need me, I’m only a few blocks away,” he says, his voice low and rough. “Just say my name, and I’ll hear you.” 

Foggy forgets how to breathe for half a second. 

“Your hearing is that good?” 

Matt’s mouth tightens. “I won’t be listening for anything else. At that distance, I can’t usually pick up quiet sounds, but if you need help, I’ll know.” He licks his lips. “Goodnight, Foggy.”  

He won’t be listening for anything else, meaning he’ll ignore the sound of Foggy brushing his teeth, Foggy wonders as he closes the door, or meaning he’ll block out the city just so he can listen to Foggy, Foggy? 

. . .

They throw a New Years’ party. It’s Karen’s idea, and Foggy is sure that no one will come, but he puts all he has into planning it anyway. They invite previous clients, and Brett, and Bess, and Mrs. Ulrich, and Claire. 

And, without telling Foggy, Matt invites Marci. 

Foggy nearly drops his plate of canapés (okay, cheese on crackers, but don’t tell Matt) when Marci walks in the door at a quarter to ten. “Marci?” he demands. 

“Fogs,” says Marci, strolling over to him. “I brought champagne.” 

“Really?” says Matt, who is suddenly stepping up to Marci. He holds out his hand for the bottle, and she gives it to him. “Thank you.” 

Foggy takes the bottle from Matt and looks it over. He whistles. “Nice champagne.” 

The corner of Matt’s mouth twitches. He raises his arm, and, to Foggy’s complete astonishment, Marci steps forward and hugs him. 

“You look well, Matthew,” she says. She steps back and looks him up and down. “ _Very_ well.” 

Foggy’s face grows hot. “Marse,” he says, a little more harshly than he means to. “Have you met Claire?” 

“Oh please, relax,” Marci says, clasping Foggy’s arm. “I’m not going to steal your man.” She turns to Claire and holds out her hand. “Marci Stahl.” 

“Claire Temple.” Claire shakes it with a warm smile. “I had to tell Foggy the same thing.” 

Matt chuckles. “Really? I want to hear all about it.” 

Foggy is fairly certain he is beet red. “I’m glad you’re all getting along so well,” he mutters, and then flees to the drinks table with the bottle of champagne. 

It’s after eleven and most of the guests have left for home or Times Square when Matt suddenly goes tense. His hands are white-knuckled on the grip of his cane. Karen is describing a disastrous New Year’s at Union Allied to a captive audience, and Foggy doesn’t think that anyone else notices. Foggy sets down his drink and slips up to Matt. “Matt,” he says softly. Matt gives him a sharp nod. Foggy sets a hand on Matt’s elbow and guides him into the hall. 

When the door closes behind them, Matt is still white-faced. “Do you want to go up on the roof?” 

“No,” Matt bites out. “Just. Not here.” 

Foggy guides Matt to the single-occupancy bathroom at the end of the hall. Matt’s cane is still clenched in his hands, and he seems to have forgotten he is holding onto it. Foggy closes the door behind them and locks it before turning to Matt. “Okay. What is it?” 

Matt swallows. One finger at a time, he loosens his grip on his cane. “Fire. Two blocks south, one east. The fire department is on their way.” 

Foggy lets out a slow breath. He hasn’t heard any sirens, even though that seems so close. “Are there still people inside?” 

Matt tilts his head, listening. “Yes. They’re scared.” He swallows again. “There’s a lot of smoke. Kitchen fire, I think. Probably.” 

“You wouldn’t be able to make it before the fire department, Matt,” Foggy says quietly. He thinks Matt already knows that, or they wouldn’t be standing here, but he also thinks Matt needs to hear it. 

Matt’s chest heaves as he takes in deep breaths. His eyebrows are drawn low over his glasses. “I know that.” 

They stand there for a moment. Matt is clearly elsewhere. His breathing is becoming more erratic, and Foggy doesn’t know what to do. 

“They’re there,” Matt says. Instead of slowing down, his breathing ratchets up. 

Foggy flips down the toilet seat cover. He takes Matt by the shoulders and steers him towards it. “Sit.” 

Matt sits woodenly. His knuckles have gone white on the grip of his cane again. Foggy crouches in front of him, his knees protesting at the strain. He keeps his hands on Matt’s shoulders and looks closely at Matt’s face. “Matt.” 

Matt’s lips part. He’s breathing shallowly through his mouth, not his nose. “Matt,” Foggy says again. “Come here.” 

Foggy wraps his arms around Matt, who tilts forward. Matt’s nose ends up in the crook of his neck, and suddenly he is breathing deeply again. It’s a little weird, Foggy supposes, to feel such relief at the knowledge that Matt is smelling him, but it’s worth it. 

“Matt,” Foggy says gently. He adjusts his arms so Matt can press his nose into the space below Foggy’s ear. “What’s my name?” 

Matt stills. Foggy can almost hear his brain working to figure out what Foggy means. He can tell that Matt has figured it out when he shifts so that his mouth is free of Foggy’s hair. 

“Franklin?” 

Foggy grins. “Who are you, my mother?” 

“Foggy,” Matt says, shifting so that his nose is once again buried in Foggy’s hair. Foggy can feel his smile against his skin. 

“And who isn’t judging you right now, even though they really want to know what can possibly smell that good?” 

 _“Foggy,”_ Matt says, exasperated. 

“Right. So let go of your cane and hug me back like I know you want to.” 

Matt only wraps one of his arms around Foggy, but Foggy can live with half a victory. Foggy tightens his grip on Matt, and Matt suddenly goes limp. Having Matt trust him that much, putting that much of his weight on Foggy’s shoulders, is incredible. His hand is still clutching at the back of Foggy’s shirt, but the rest of his weight is on Foggy. Foggy’s knees and thighs burn, and he gives in and drops to his knees. 

 _Great,_ Foggy thinks. _This is it. You’re going to confess your undying love to Matt while kneeling on the dirty bathroom floor._

Matt’s breathing is even again, but it’s still shallow and fast, and he has his mouth open against Foggy’s skin like breathing Foggy in is the only thing keeping him centered. It is completely inappropriate, and there has probably never been a worse-timed boner in the life and times of Foggy Nelson, but Foggy feels himself getting hard. 

Matt tenses. 

“Please, Matt,” Foggy whispers. “Just ignore it.” 

They remain there for a moment, and then Matt does. 

Foggy’s knees are starting to ache from the cold tile and his erection is nonexistent when Matt suddenly tilts his head to one side. “They’re out,” Matt says. “No permanent lung damage.” He frowns. “I think.” 

“The fire?” 

“Under control.” 

Matt pulls back slightly. Foggy immediately lets him go, then stands and steps back. “Good. That’s good.” 

Matt stands. His hands are resting on top of his cane, and his face is unreadable. “Foggy—” 

“Let’s get back,” Foggy says hurriedly. He immediately kicks himself, because they have to have a conversation at some point, but he isn’t sure which one Matt is about to start and he definitely doesn’t want to have any of them in the office bathroom. “I bet it’s almost midnight.” 

Matt is silent for a moment, but he nods. 

When they step back into the office, Karen, Claire, and Marci all turn to look at them. Foggy is grateful when all Karen says is, “Everyone else had to head out, so we get the champagne all to ourselves.” 

“Sounds good to me.” Foggy moves into the little circle they have made by the drinks table, and Matt steps up next to him. Too late, Foggy realizes that he hadn’t offered Matt his arm and Matt hasn’t been bothering with his cane. Marci narrows her eyes at Matt before her gaze darts to Foggy, but Foggy ignores her and accepts a glass of champagne from Karen, which he passes to Matt. 

“Any New Year’s resolutions?” Marci asks as Foggy accepts his own glass of champagne. Her eyes are on Foggy, but Karen answers first. 

“To finally look up the instructions for the copier.” 

Claire laughs, and Matt and Foggy both raise their glasses with a chorused, “Hear, hear.” 

“To be more willing to let people make their own mistakes,” Claire says dryly. Matt bumps her gently with his shoulder. 

Marci sniffs. “To get my soul back.” 

Foggy raises his glass to her with a smile. 

Matt goes still and quiet, the way he does when he has something so say, so Foggy waits for him to speak. “To trust the people who care about me.” 

Everyone smiles. “Hear, hear,” Karen says softly. 

“Foggy?” Marci says. Her eyes burn into him, and he knows, suddenly, what she and Matt have been talking about. 

Foggy swallows. “To be more like Matt.” Next to him, Matt raises his head. Without looking at him, Foggy knocks back his flute of champagne and sets it down on the table. He squares his shoulders and faces Matt, whose eyebrows are slowly rising above his dark glasses. “Matt, I’m in love with you.” 

The stillness and silence of the room is so complete, Foggy isn’t sure that Matt is breathing. Foggy isn’t sure if he is breathing, either; all he can feel is his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest. _Better here than in the office bathroom,_ his brain informs him, but he isn’t sure if humiliating himself in font of his closest friends is really that much better. 

Matt abruptly shoves his glass into Claire’s hands, who takes it with a startled sound. “You smell like almonds, and vanilla, and chili peppers,” Matt informs him. Someone who might be Karen makes an odd choking sound. “I never liked chili peppers until I met you. That vanilla candle I kept in our room in our third year of law school wasn’t from a girl. It was so I had something to calm me down when you weren’t there. I always hated it when you spent the night somewhere else and came back smelling like someone else’s shampoo.” He is breathing hard, like he has just dropped in after a night of jumping off buildings, and all Foggy can do is stare. 

“And the almonds, Foggy! I used to think you used some sort of—face cream or aftershave with almonds in it, but I have gone through your shampoo and your conditioner and your soap, and none of them contain almonds.” Karen mutters something that sounds like, _“He read Foggy’s shampoo bottle?”_ Matt takes a deep breath. There is a flush high on his cheeks. “How the fuck do you smell like almonds, Foggy?” 

“Just sheer willpower, I guess,” Foggy says, not really aware of the words coming out of his mouth. He doesn’t know what is going on anymore, but if this is a rejection, it is the weirdest one he has ever gotten. 

But Matt isn’t done. “And do you know how frustrating it is that you never correct anyone when they assume we’re together? When I picked up our dry cleaning last time, the woman behind the counter told me that we were living in sin and that now that it’s legal, we should just get married.” 

“Oh,” Foggy says. “So it’s not too early to bring out the matching ring set?” 

“I have been in love with you since the second semester of freshman year,” Matt says in a low voice, and Foggy’s world stops turning. “You are the kindest, most selfless person I know. You are, quite honestly, Foggy, the best thing that has ever happened to me.” 

“Good,” Foggy says. “Cool. Well, that’s—Yeah.” 

Marci sighs. In the sudden silence, there is the unmistakable sound of her opening her clutch. “If only you had waited five more minutes, Foggy Bear.” 

Foggy, who does not think he could tear his eyes away from Matt if his life depended on it, sees Marci hand something green to Karen out of the corner of his eye. 

“Ten,” Claire says. Foggy supposes he’ll have to be upset later about the betting pool that has apparently been going on without his knowledge. _Et tu, Brute?_ Foggy thinks, but then someone else says, “Nine.” 

“Eight.” 

“Matt,” Foggy says. 

“Seven.” 

“That’s why I didn’t tell you.” Matt’s expression is heartbreakingly sincere. “I can’t lose you, Foggy.” 

“Five.” 

“Nelsons don’t break their promises,” Foggy tells him, and he steps forward and kisses him. 

Foggy is pretty sure they’re still a few seconds short of the New Year, but the room erupts in cheering and wolf whistles. Matt’s lips are soft, and he kisses Foggy back achingly gently. Foggy pulls back just far enough to catch his breath. 

“Happy New Year,” he says as outside, the city welcomes a new start. 

“Happy New Year,” Matt says, and smiles against his lips as he kisses him again. “Foggy.” 


End file.
